


What Was Promised

by freyjaschariot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Married Gendrya, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjaschariot/pseuds/freyjaschariot
Summary: Five years ago, Arya vanquished the Night King with the cat’s paw dagger. In the aftermath, Jon was named king, and Westeros began to piece itself back together after decades of chaos.Now married and parents to a three year old daughter, Arya and Gendry have made their peace with the past. But when Arya is almost killed by a Faceless Man, they are suddenly thrust back into the world of danger and intrigue they thought they’d left behind for good. Can they help each other survive what may just be their most difficult battle yet?Non-canon compliant. A mixture of book and show elements with my own twist thrown in.





	1. The Storm

Rain swept sideways across the battlements of Storm’s End, and lightning split the sky above the castle’s single thrusting tower, but inside the Great Hall the Lord’s guests were far too deep in their cups to notice. Half the Stormlands, it seemed, had pressed into the Hall to celebrate the marriage of Bethany Mertyns to Allesor Musgrave, the young Lord of Broad Arch. Laughter and ale had flowed freely the night through, and, though it was now well into the wee hours of the morning, neither storm nor festivities showed signs of abating any time soon.

The only person not enjoying themselves was the Lord Paramount himself. He hid it well, and to most of his guests he seemed jolly enough, seated at the high table, smiling as he watched the dancers, every now and then calling out a new song for the musicians to play. But those who knew Gendry Baratheon best picked up on the tension in his broad shoulders, and how his smiles never seemed to reach those famous blue eyes.

“I’m getting too old for these kinds of things,” Davos said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve as he sank into the seat beside Gendry. 

Gendry looked at him askance. “You looked well enough when you were dancing Malora Gower across the room just now.”

“An act, lad, all an act. I was wheezing before she’d gotten me out of the chair. It’s you who should be down there, not me.”

“Don’t much feel like dancing." Gendry was only interested in dancing with one woman, and her version involved a lot more steel and the high possibility of bodily harm.

“You’re worried about the little lady,” Davos said. It wasn’t a question. But then, Davos had always been able to read Gendry with irritating accuracy. 

Gendry didn’t bother denying it. Lifting his goblet, he drained its contents. “She should have been back by now." He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Three days to Sunspear. Three back. That’s how it’s always been.”

“You might not have noticed, but the weather hasn’t been fair for sailing.”

“Only the last day or two. She should have been back four days ago, at least.”

“Perhaps negotiations ran long.”

“Then why didn’t she send a raven?”

“Couldn’t tell you, lad. But I do know this: there’s not a single person the world over more capable of taking care of themselves than that wife of yours.” 

Gendry knew it. He did. And yet… 

“I just have this feeling.” It was the tiredness, Gendry told himself. He never slept well when Arya was away. On top of that, he’d been having strange dreams of late. In his dreams, shadowy figures crept down the halls of Storm’s End. Gendry chased after them, but as soon as he caught up they disappeared like smoke between his fingers. Just dreams. That’s all they are. Gendry shook his head, as though he could shake the thoughts from his mind the way a dog shook water from its fur. “You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

Standing abruptly, Gendry raised his goblet. “Stormlanders!” he called. As one, every face in the Great Hall turned toward the high table. In the five years since he had arrived at Storm’s End, Gendry had earned his people’s respect, and their love besides. He was a lord, well and truly, but he had also never forgotten where he came from. He spoke to farmers and masons the same way he spoke to lords and maesters, and the people loved him for it. For a bastard who’d spent most of his life without a name, he now had more than most. The Blue-eyed Buck. The Bull of Storm’s End. The Lord of Steel. When they travelled abroad, Stormlanders were known for boasting their lord could swing a hammer better than the Smith himself. “We have gathered to celebrate the joining of two noble souls. To Bethany and Allesor. May yours be the happiest union in all the land.”

“Unfair, my lord,” Allesor called, grinning, from the middle of the floor, where he stood with his arm looped around his new wife’s waist. A stout, red haired young man with a broad face, Allesor was several inches shorter than his willowy Mertyns bride. “Everyone knows there is no happier union than that of you and your Lady Wolf.” 

Gendry smile wryly. “The second happiest union, then.” He lifted his goblet. “To Allesor and Bethany!” 

Echoes of _Allesor and Bethany_ and _The Lord and Lady of Broad Arch_ filled the room. As the shouts died down, the musicians took up their instruments once more, and soon the jaunty notes of _The Maids that Bloom in Spring_ filled the hall, along with the clapping of hands and stomping of feet. 

Gendry was reaching for the wine pitcher to refill his goblet when the doors to the Great Hall burst open and Steffon Penrose, the castellan’s son, stumbled inside. A slender, green-eyed youth, Steffon was breathing hard, his pale locks dark with rain. Rivers of water ran off the hem of his cloak onto the floor. 

“What is it, lad?” Davos asked. 

“A ship, m’lord,” Steffon gasped. “A ship has foundered in the bay. I was on the battlements with Hugh. We saw it run aground on the shoals.”

_Fools,_ Gendry thought. Who would dare try the bay in weather such as this? Ships frequently ran aground below the castle—the sound wasn’t called Shipbreaker Bay for nothing. But even the most inexperienced crews knew better than to come so close to shore during a storm. A question for another time, Gendry told himself. For now, they would do what they could for the poor souls. 

“Allard, Boros, Criston, with me,” Gendry said grimly, jumping down the dais. “Bring torches. We’ll search the beach for survivors.”

~~~~~

A damp passageway led from the bowels of the Storm’s End to the beach below. Long before they came to the tunnel’s entrance, Gendry could heard the wind howling against the bars of the portcullis, and the crash of waves thrashing against the castle walls. Every few moments lightning flashed, filling the cavern with strange greenish light.

Boros raised the portcullis, the groan of rusted iron adding to the howling of the storm, and Gendry stepped out into the gale. He was soaked to the bone in seconds. The rain fell in great, droving sheets, frigid needles stabbing at Gendry’s exposed skin. With the storm surge, the slip of land between the waterline and the cliffs had all but disappeared; only a narrow strip of beach remained. 

In the distance, Gendry could just make out the outline of the doomed ship not far off shore. _Bloody fools_ , Gendry thought again. _What could they have been thinking?_

The men’s torches flickered in and out, buffeted first this way, then that by the wind. 

They found the first body by accident, Steffon tripping over it in the dark. At first Gendry took it for a clump of seaweed, then Boros lowered his torch and they saw it was a man lying face down in the sand. 

“He alive?” Criston said hesitantly. Gendry thought he knew the answer. Still, he knelt beside the body and rolled it gently onto its side.

What he saw made his heart turn to ice in his chest. 

“Seven hells,” Boros swore. “It’s Ben.”

They all knew that face—that wide nose, those pale green eyes. They belonged to Ben Horpe, the cook aboard the _Winter Wind._

Arya’s ship. 

Not far from Ben, they found Alyn Harding, the ship’s boatswain. A few feet away lay Alyn’s twin brother, Aidyn. 

The crew of the _Winter Wind_ littered the beach like chaff tossed to the wind, and everyone of them was dead. 

Gendry no longer felt the sting of the rain, no longer heard the wind howling in his ears. His entire being had been taken over by a single, all encompassing thought. 

_Arya._

“My lord!” Criston had to shout to make himself heard over the crashing of the waves. He’d ventured away from the water, up toward the cliff face. Gendry turned toward him just in time for lightning to crack overhead, turning Criston’s anguished face whiter than bone, and illuminating the small form that lay at his feet. 

_No._

Gendry’s feet carried him to the cliffs of their own volition, and he collapsed beside Arya's body. Her face was turned away from him, dark hair plastered across her features, still he knew it was her. Even faceless, deep in the the seventh level of hell, he would have known her. 

His hands hovered over her body, yet Gendry couldn’t bring himself to touch her. If he touched her this would be real and it couldn’t be real, it was just another dream, just another nightmare. Soon he would wake and Arya would be snoring softly beside him.

But deep down Gendry knew this wasn’t a dream. Knew there would be no waking from the nightmare, not this time. 

Steffon fell to his knees by Arya’s shoulders and dropped his ear to her chest. 

Gendry had never been a man of faith, yet he found himself praying. _Mother, Father, Warrior, Crone. If I have ever done anything to offend you, I repent. Just don’t take her from me._

After what seemed like an eternity, Steffon’s head jerked up, eyes were wide. “She’s alive! She’s alive, my lord!”

_Alive?_

That was all Gendry needed to hear. Life snapped back into his body. He scooped Arya into his arms—even soaking wet, she weighed nothing, less than nothing, how could something so precious take up so little space?—and then he was running, back to the passageway, back to the castle, his wife clutched to his chest, and his heartbeat thrashing in his ears.


	2. A Face in the Night

Gendry couldn’t sit still. He had carried Arya straight from the underground passageway to the lord’s chambers in the upper levels of the castle's tower while Criston ran for the maester. Now he paced back and forth across the floor of his and Arya’s room as Maester Vanders bent over the bed, examining Arya. Gendry had checked her himself for any serious wounds and found none, but he couldn’t relax until the maester had confirmed she would be alright. The examination was taking longer than he’d anticipated and with every passing second, Gendry’s anxiety grew. 

Finally, the maester turned away from the bed. A portly man with weak eyes and more chins than Gendry had fingers on a hand, Maester Vanders had served House Baratheon from the time of Gendry’s grandfather. Despite his great age, Vanders was still in complete possession of his wits. Never before had Gendry been so grateful for his presence. 

“How is she?” Gendry asked. 

“I do not believe her life is in danger, my lord,” Vanders said. “However, it seems she swallowed quite a lot of seawater. She also has several bruised ribs, and her left palm bears a deep gash.” He frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she caught a knife with her bare hand.” _Aye, that sounds like Arya,_ Gendry thought. _But who was wielding the knife?_ “I cleaned the injury and applied a poultice,” the maester continued. “There is little more I can do for her now. Send for me when she wakes—once we’ve heard her tale I will know better how to proceed.”

Gendry nodded stiffly as he dragged a hand down his whiskered cheeks. “I will. Thank you, Maester.”

Bobbing his head dutifully, Vanders trundled from the room. 

Gendry turned to Davos, who stood by the door with his arms folded across his chest. “What do you think?” Gendry said. He began to pace again, blood running hot beneath his skin. “Privateers?” He had been wracking his brain trying to come up with an explanation for why Arya had sailed into the storm. So far the only reasoning he’d been able to muster was that someone—or some _thing_ —had forced her to it.

“Hard to say,” Davos said. “These water have never been popular hunting ground for pirates. Simply not worth the trouble. But then, the wars turned everything upside down. Could be they’re desperate enough to try their luck where they wouldn’t have before.

Beyond the chamber’s tall, arched windows, the storm continued to rage, rain thrashing against the glass, thunder shuddering the castle walls. A similar storm swirled inside Gendry’s chest. He longed to put hammer to steal, to pound his upset into a piece of tractable steel, but he dare not leave Arya’s side. 

“I will catch whoever is responsible for this,” he said, more to himself than Davos. “And when I do...” His hands curled into fists at his sides. Though he had been a lord for years now, Gendry had never come to understand the great love high-borns placed on the sigils and mottos of their houses. Tonight, however, he felt he finally understood what was meant by _Ours is the Fury._

“I don’t doubt it, lad,” Davos said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But not tonight. This storm’s not going anywhere, and we won’t know anything for sure ’til the little lady wakes. For now, all we can do is wait.” 

A muscle in Gendry’s jaw twitched. Patience had never been his strong suit. 

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Davos said. “Try and get some rest. You know where to find me when she wakes.” With that, he took his leave, the door creaking as he pulled it shut behind him. 

The thought of attempting to rest while Arya lay there unconscious for reasons Gendry did not know seemed laughable. Still, he could practically hear Arya chiding him for wearing a path into the floor of their chambers with his pacing, so Gendry grabbed the chair from the desk where Arya often sat to draft correspondence, sometimes south to Dorne, sometimes west to the Reach, sometimes north to her sister in Winterfell, and dragged it to the bedside where he threw himself into it. 

For the first time since he had scooped her up from the beach, Gendry turned his eyes on his wife and truly looked at her. In truth, he had been avoiding doing so. It pained him to see her like this. Tucked into their large bed, dwarfed by the pillows propping her up, Arya looked even smaller than usual. Her skin was pale as bone, and the hollows beneath her eyes had taken on a purplish tint.

Gendry picked up her uninjured hand from where it lay on the blankets and clasped it in his. “Wake up, love,” he said. “Please wake up.”

For a moment Gendry dared hope his voice might stir her. But beyond the shallow rise and fall of her chest, Arya did not move. _It’s alright,_ Gendry told himself. For her, he could be patient. For her, he would wait as long as it took.

Despite his worry, the whistling of the wind and the grumbling thunder proved an effective lullaby. When Gendry fell asleep some time later, he was still holding Arya’s hand. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He woke to a knife at his throat. 

It was still nighttime, the sky beyond the windows black as ink. It took Gendry a moment to realize that the shadowy figure above him was his wife, and that she had her Valyrian steel dagger pressed to his jugular. 

Relief and confusion flooded through him simultaneously. “Arya—”

“Shut up,” she snapped. “Prove you’re Gendry. Tell me something only my husband knows.”

Gendry’s bewilderment grew. “Arya—” 

The blade tightened against his neck. “Do it!”

Closing his eyes in an effort to fight through his confusion and grogginess, Gendry searched his memory for something only the two of them knew. “The first time we lay together,” he said finally, “I asked you what kind of lady tumbled a blacksmith on a sack of grain. You said, ‘the bad kind.’”

When Gendry dared open his eyes once more, the blade had fallen from his throat. It was no longer a ferocious shadow that stood above him, but his wife. “It’s you,” Arya said hoarsely. Shoving her dagger back into its sheath, she fell against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I had to be sure.”

Despite his bewilderment, Gendry wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head into the crook below his chin. Her hair smelled of brine. They clung to one another for several moments. Finally, Gendry placed his hands on Arya’s shoulders and pushed her gently away. “What’s going on, Arya? What happened?”

“A Faceless Man,” Arya said. Her voice came out raspy, throat raw from swallowing salt water. She looked on the verge of collapse. The only other time Gendry had seen her this weary was in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell. “He was on the ship. He stole Darren’s face while we were in Dorne. I didn’t realize until it was too late. He killed the crew and tried to kill me." She shivered. "Kill me or kidnap me, I’m not sure. I think he would’ve been happy with either.” 

“I managed to lock myself in the captain’s cabin,” she continued, “so he drove the ship into the storm to flush me out. I jumped overboard, but he followed. When I woke and saw you I thought...” She trailed off and shook her head, lips pressed to a thin line. 

Gendry finished the thought for her. “You thought he’d killed me and taken my face.”

Arya nodded silently. “He’s here, Gendry. Somewhere in the castle. I know it.”

“Why?” Gendry asked. “What does he want?”

Arya gazed up at him. Her eyes were almost silver in the darkness. “What is owed. I swore myself to the Many-Faced God. When I left I broke that vow. They will have come to right the scales.” 

Gendry knew about Arya’s time in the House of Black and White. Knew she had taken leave of Braavos without the Council’s permission. Arya had told him she believed they would come for her one day. But since they had been reunited, the two of them had always had other pressing issues to deal with, and as the years passed without incident, Gendry had begun to wonder whether her fears were unfounded. He’d been a fool, he realized. He hadn’t taken her warnings seriously, and now they were paying for it. 

Arya pulled a dagger from the inside of her sleeve—at any given time she had at least a half dozen on her person. This one she pressed it into Gendry’s hand. “Go to Nym’s chamber. Lock yourself in and don’t open the door for anyone, I don’t care who they say they are. It’s me he wants. I’ll draw him away.”

“Fuck that,” Gendry snapped. “I’m coming with you. We’ll hunt him down together.”

Arya opened her mouth to argue, but before she could something shifted in her face. Spinning around, she conjured another dagger from its sheath and let it fly. For a split second Gendry gazed after the blade, confused as to Arya had aimed for a blank expanse of wall. Then a hand separated itself from the shadows and plucked the dagger out of the air, as easily as one might pull a piece of straw from their hair. A body followed the hand, and suddenly a man was standing by the door where before there had been naught but darkness. 

“Well met, Arya of House Stark,” the man said calmly. “It has been many years since we last spoke.” 

He wore Darren’s face, just as Arya had said, and spoke in the Darren’s deep, gravelly voice, but it wasn’t Darren. He had Darren’s bottle-green eyes, his crooked nose, and his thick thatch of blonde hair, but he held himself too casually to be the sailor, who always turned to a stammering mess whenever Arya was around, overwhelmed by the Night-Slayer’s presence despite having known her for years.

Gendry moved to step in front of Arya, but she held up a hand, stopping him. Her grey eyes flicked up to his, steady despite her exhaustion. _Trust me,_ they said. Though it pained him to do so, he nodded and stepped aside. 

Arya turned her attention back to the Faceless Man. “Why did you kill my crew?” She asked.

The imposter shrugged. “A man did not mean to kill them. Only you. But you are hard to kill, and they were not. So they are dead and you remain.”

“So you do want me dead? I wasn’t sure.”

“A Faceless man does not want, Arya Stark. I am merely here to collect what was promised. You owe a debt to Him of the Many Faces. Return to the House of Black and White with me. Fulfill your oath, and you need not die here tonight.” 

Lightning flashed beyond the windows, filling the room with brilliant light. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried for a thousand years,” Arya said. The shakiness Gendry had observed earlier was gone. The woman that stood before him now was the Night-Slayer in all her quiet ferocity, as formidable as the storm raging outside. 

“Perhaps not,” the man said. He seemed unbothered by the thought. “Perhaps it is I who will die this night. But that will not free you from your debt. If I fall, another will take my place, and another after that. The Many-Faced God will have what is His, whether it is today, tomorrow, or ten years from now. You will never be free. Not until your debt is paid.”

A growl built in Gendry's chest and his hand tightening around the dagger. It was only the sharp look Arya shot him that stopped him from killing the man right then and there. He knew that look; his wife had a plan. Hard as it was, he was just going to have to trust that she knew what she was doing. 

“What if I give the Many-Faced God something else in my place,” Arya said to the Faceless Man. “Something better.”

The man cocked Darren’s head like a bird. “It does not work that way, child. You know this.”

“Even if I were to give Him Jasper Blackwood?” Arya said. 

The name meant nothing to Gendry but it must have meant something to the Faceless Man because he froze at the sound of it. For several beats he did not reply. “You cannot,” he said after a moment. Despite his words, Gendry sensed a fraction of uncertainty in his voice. “The Council has hunted Blackwood for years. What makes you think you could succeed where they could not?”

“Because we are the same, him and I,” Arya said. “We both promised to serve the Many-Faced God. We both broke that promise. We both took His knowledge and used it to our own benefit. But where I used it to avenge my family, and have not used it since, Blackwood persists in using his ill-gotten talents for his own enrichment. That is the ultimate affront to the Many-Faced God, is it not? Would it not settle my debt to put an end to his blasphemy? 

The Faceless Man was silent for a long while. “That is not for a man to decide,” he said finally. He paused, and then added, “But I will take your proposal to the Council. They have long sought to put an end to Blackwood’s treachery.”

Arya lowered her head in an uncharacteristically diffident manner. “Thank you. That is all I ask.”

A small smile played around Darren’s lips. “You always were the most clever little girl." 

Lifting her head, Arya raised an eyebrow. “You forgot the most humble.”

At that, the Faceless Man laughed. It was a creaky, broken sound, like a boat being ripped apart by a storm, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “Farewell, Arya Stark,” he said, Darren’s bottle-green eyes gleaming in the darkness. “A white winged raven will bear our response.”

“I will look for it,” Arya said.

The man nodded. Then he laid a hand on the door and was gone. 

As soon as he had disappeared, Gendry turned to Arya. “Who is Jasper Blackwood?” he meant to ask, but the words died on his lips. Arya swayed where she stood. She had held herself so confidently during the confrontation that Gendry had almost forgotten about her injuries. Now he realized that her strength had been an act. She had held herself together out of sheer force of will. Now the last of her strength was failing. 

All at once her legs gave out. Lunging forward, Gendry caught her as she fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where my own twist on the stuff from the books comes in. At one point while she's at the House of Black and White the kindly man tells Arya she can leave whenever she wants because she is not one of them yet. The rules aren't really made clear in the books, but in this story, once someone has pledged themselves to the Many-Faced God, there is no going back. It's pretty much a Night Watch length commitment. But Arya does what she wants, so she ditched anyway, and now she's facing the consequences. Oops!
> 
> Also, complete credit to whichever writer from Vikings wrote the line, “You couldn’t kill me if you tried for a hundred years.” If they existed in same universe, I’m pretty sure Arya and Lagertha would be friends.


	3. Valar Dohaeris

When Arya next woke the storm had finally moved on. The sky beyond the windows was soft and grey, the sea below like ruffled silk. Weak light fell through the glass onto the floor where Gendry sat with Nym, the two of them surrounded by a ring of small wooden animals.

“Mama!” Nym cried as Arya pushed herself gingerly into a seated position. Flying to the bed, she clambered onto the mattress and threw herself into her mother’s arms.

Arya hid her wince as Nym knocked into her bruised ribs. “Hello, sweetling.” She smiled as she brushed the three year old’s dark curls out of her eyes. “I missed you.” In appearance, Nymeria Baratheon took after both her parents in equal measure, with Gendry’s coal-black hair and Arya’s wide grey eyes. Arya glanced at Gendry over the top of Nym’s head. “How long was I under?”

“Almost two days.” Gendry settled himself on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?” 

“I’ve had worse.”

“Mama, look!” Nym waved the small carving in her hand. “Uncle Davos made me a direwolf like Nymeria.” Nym loved hearing tales of her namesake; how Nymeria had led her pack into battle alongside the Northern Alliance during the War for the Dawn, and then saved Gendry’s life during the Siege of King’s Landing. 

“It’s lovely,” Arya said appreciatively. “What shall you name it?”

“Lady,” Nym said, petting the wolf’s delicately carved head. “For Aunt Sansa’s direwolf.”

Something like wistfulness flashed across Arya’s face, but only for a moment; then it was gone. “Sansa will like that. We must write and tell her.”

“Can I use your seal?” Nym asked excitedly. Arya’s personal seal was the Stark direwolf quartered with Gendry’s black bull. Gendry had made it for Arya himself as a wedding present.

“Of course, love.” Arya dropped a kiss onto the top of Nym’s head. “Why don’t you go find Shyra and ask her to help you start a letter?”

“Okay, mama.” 

Gendry caught Nym as she slid down from the bed. “Wait a moment, little wolf,” he said, tickling her sides. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

Giggling, Nym arched up to plant a kiss on Gendry’s bearded check. 

Gendry held a hand to his heart. “A sweeter kiss there never was. Thank you, m’lady.” He set her down gently. “Off you go now.” 

Nym danced away, and Gendry turned to Arya. Cupping the back of her head in his hands, Gendry rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“No promises,” she said, a wry smile twisting her lips. “But I’ll do my best.”

They sat there awhile, simply drawing comfort from each other’s presence. More than anything, Gendry wished they could stay like this, ensconced in their bed, hidden away from the problems of the outside world. But after a few moments Arya pulled away.

"What of the crew?" she asked.

Gendry scrubbed a hand down his cheeks. "All the bodies have been recovered. The funeral is to be tonight." 

Arya nodded silently. "I'll be there." 

"You should stay here and rest—"

Arya cut him off. "No. What happened is my fault. The least I can do is be there to send them off." 

Gendry could tell she wouldn't be dissuaded. "Very well," he said softly. "If that is what you wish."

"It is." 

There were other things they had to discuss, things that would not wait for the mourning period to be over. “Arya, who is Jasper Blackwood?” Gendry asked. The question had been eating at him ever since Arya had first spoke the name. Until two nights ago, he had never heard her mention it before.

Arya’s face hardened. “He was a Faceless Man.”

“Was?”

She nodded. “By the time I arrived in Braavos, he had been ordained for several years, but I heard stories of him. He was a legend among the acolytes, and even the priests whispered about him when they thought we weren’t listening. They called him the greatest assassin to ever come out of the House of Black and White. I was in the second year of my apprenticeship when he abandoned the order. He sent a letter to the guild claiming that he, and only he, was the Many-Faced God’s true scion. He said that the Guild should be answering to _him_. Of course, they refused, and ordered him to return to the House to answer for his heresy. When he didn’t, they sent other Faceless Men after him to bring him back. None of them ever returned.” 

“We’re both oath-breakers," she continued, "but Blackwood openly challenged the guild’s authority and encouraged others to follow suit. They want him gone, but they’ve already lost many men to that end. It takes years to train a Faceless Man; the guild cannot afford to lose anymore.”

“So you’re going to do their dirty work for them.” Gendry shook his head. “I don’t like this. There has to be another way.”

Arya’s eyes were tired. “It’s this or be hunted for the rest of my life. I can’t live like that, always looking over my shoulder. Never knowing if my family is truly safe. Anyway, we don’t even know if they’ll accept the proposal.” She looked away. “I’m sorry, Gendry.”

Gendry’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For all of this. You should be living a happy, simple life, married to some soft-handed lady who sings you sweet songs and knows how to dance without a sword in her hand. Instead you have a half-feral wife who brings you nothing but trouble.”

For a moment Gendry just stared at her. Then he burst out laughing. “Trouble found me long before we ever met—or do you not remember that I was sold to the Night’s Watch for fear the Lannisters would have my head? As for the other thing, what use have I for pretty songs and dance? And what use would such a lady have for a blacksmith who would rather sling steel than do whatever it is proper lordlings do to fill their time?” Still chuckling, Gendry smoothed an errant strand of hair behind Arya’s ear. “No, love, we are perfectly matched, for I fear no one else would have either of us.”

The corner of Arya’s lips quirked. “It’s a good thing we’re already married because you are terrible at wooing.”

They had inched closer to one another over the course of the conversation. Now only a sliver of space remained between them. Suddenly Gendry found himself noticing the fullness of his wife’s lips, of the subtle curve of her body beneath the sheets. “Is that what you want?” he said, voice dropping a level as they leaned closer still. “For me to woo you?”

Arya's hand rose to curl into the front of his shirt. “If I said yes," she breathed, "what would you do?”

Instead of answering, Gendry captured her face in his hands and slanted his mouth over hers. He only meant to tease her—one kiss to leave her wanting more. But her arms found their way around his neck, one kiss became many, and then Arya’s hand was sliding down Gendry’s chest, itching lower and lower until it was almost at the band of his trousers. Gendry caught it just before it reached its destination. 

“Arya, enough,” he said, wrenching away. They were both breathing heavily, and Gendry's desire strained against the seam of his trousers. “I should not have done that. You need to rest.”

He tried to move but Arya pulled him back. “I slept for two days. That is rest enough. What I need now is my husband.” Her gaze caught him like a vice, and Gendry found himself incapable of looking away. Her eyes were pools of purest grey—as grey as Winterfell’s walls, Nymeria’s coat, and the sea that lapped at the Stormland’s shores. Endless pools that Gendry would happily drown in. 

_Get a hold of yourself, Gendry. You’re acting like a green boy._

Gendry squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he had taken possession of himself once more. “You have me,” he said, gently removing Arya’s hands from his shoulders. “From this day until my last day. But for now, you need to rest.”

Arya huffed a sigh and fell back against the pillows. “You’re no fun at all. At least stay with me a while, then. I’m cold and you're a bloody furnace.”

Gendry shucked his boots and climbed into the bed. He lay back and Arya adjusted herself so that her head was pillowed on his chest. 

Gendry stroked her hair idly as he gazed up at the ceiling. “I’ll make it up to you when you’re well,” he promised. “You know I’m good for my word.” When she didn’t respond he looked down. “Arya?”

She had fallen asleep. With her hands curled up by her chin and lips slightly parted, she looked almost like the child he had once known. 

Letting his head fall back against the pillows, Gendry smiled to himself. “Sleep well, m’lady.”

All he got in response was a snore. 

 

 

A month passed. 

Every day Gendry went to Maester Vanders to ask whether he had received a white winged raven, but the only birds to come or leave the keep were as black as Gendry’s own hair. 

Then one morning, Gendry woke to find a raven perched on the windowsill of the lord’s bedchamber. Its body was black but one of its wings bore a splash of white.

Gendry’s body tensed. “Arya,” he said, shaking her awake.

At the sight of the bird, Arya tossed off her drowsiness like a veil and ran to the window. The raven held out its leg, and Arya removed a small scroll from the cylinder attached to its foot. The scroll was sealed with white wax mixed with black, and stamped with a weirwood face. 

Gendry watched over Arya’s shoulder as she cracked the seal and unfurled the missive. The parchment bore two words.

_Valar Dohaeris_

“What does it mean?” Gendry asked.

“It means they accept.” Crumpling the paper in her hand, Arya turned away. Gendry could already see the wheels turning in her head, plotting, planning, scheming.

“So that’s it then,” he said. Truth be told, he hadn’t been sure what outcome to hope for. Having the Faceless Men after them was not ideal, but then, neither was the prospect of hunting down the greatest assassin to ever live. Now that the guild’s answer had come, it no longer mattered what he thought. Arya was clearly set on this path, and she was the one who knew the threat best. All Gendry could do now was aid her the best he could.

“I’ve collected rumors over the years,” she was saying. “Possible sightings, aliases Blackwood could be using. He was last thought to be in Pentos, going by the name Jaehaerys. I’ll go there first.”

Gendry nodded along. “When do we leave?”

Ary stopped pacing abruptly. “We?”

“I’m coming with you,” Gendry said. He’d thought that was obvious. 

Arya stared at him blankly. “No, you’re not.”

Anger and disbelief flared in Gendry’s chest. “You think I’m going to send you off to hunt down a master assassin by yourself? Are you mad?” 

It was the wrong thing to say.

Arya’s expression darkened. “I don’t think you’re going to _let_ me do anything.”

“Seven hells, Arya,” Gendry growled. He raked a hand through his hair. At times like this he cursed himself for taking such an infuriating woman to wife. “You know what I meant. You might be the Night-Slayer but you’re not infallible. Let me help you.”

“And what if something happens to us?" Arya countered. "All this is happening because of choices I made. It’s my responsibility. I’ll not let Nym lose both her parents to her mother’s folly.”

“She won’t lose either of us,” Gendry said, trying to keep his temper in check. “We’ll watch each other’s backs, just like we’ve always done. That’s how we’ve survived this far. It’s how we’ll survive this.”

“That’s just it! This isn’t like anything else we’ve done. This won’t be another battle like Winterfell or King’s Landing. Your strength won’t help you against a man like Blackwood.”

Gendry crossed his arms. “Either we go together, or not at all.”

Arya’s nostrils flared. “Why are you so bloody stubborn?”

“Because you’re acting a fool,” Gendry snapped. “You’re letting your pride get in the way of your judgement. You don’t have to do this on your own.”

“You think this is about _pride_?” Arya said furiously. “It’s not. It’s about survival. It’s about keeping our family safe. It’s about—”

Gendry never found out what she was going to say next, because at that moment a knock came at the door, and Rhea, one of the serving girls, poked her head into the chamber. 

“Apologies, m’lord,” she said hesitantly, glancing from one of them to the other. “M’lady. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Only, there’s a visitor in the Great Hall for you.’

“Who?” Gendry said frowning. They weren’t expecting anyone.

“The king, m’lord.” Then, out of habit formed when there were five claimants to the throne, she added, “King Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super behind on responding to comments but I see every one of them and I appreciate them so much!! 
> 
> I also have a question for y'all. I'm kind of a slow writer so I'm wondering whether you guys prefer shorter but more frequent chapters (basically the length they've been so far), or would you rather have longer chapters but with more of a wait in between? If you have a preference leave it in the comments and I'll try to adjust my posting schedule based on the response. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	4. Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter from Arya's POV! From here on out they'll bounce back and forth between her and Gendry.

Had Arya not known her brother’s face like that back of her hand, she would never have guessed the man in the Great Hall was the King of Westeros. Jon’s beard had grown overlong, and he wore worn traveling clothes and held a rough hewn walking stick in his hand. 

“What are you doing here?” Arya exclaimed after she had hugged him. “And why are you dressed like... that?”

“You don’t like my disguise?” Jon said, holding out his arms as he smiled. “I was touring of the Reach, trying to suss out how recovery efforts are going, only every time they heard us coming, the lords would hide away any discontents. After a while, I realized I would never discover the real state of things rattling around the countryside with the royal retinue. So I left my retainers at Ashford, and I’ve been traveling on my own ever since.”

“On your own?” Arya frowned. “Is that wise? What about your Kingsguard?”

Jon shrugged. “They weren’t happy about it. But one benefit of being king is being able to tell your guards to sod off every now and then. To be honest it’s been a relief to be out of King’s Landing and on my own for a bit.”

Arya’s eyes softened. “I know you never wanted the crown, but I’m glad it’s yours all the same.” Taking Jon’s hand, she drew him over to the high table. “Come sit. I’ll have food brought from the kitchens, and wine. Tell us how the rest of the country is faring.”

Baskets of bread, trenchers of stew, and flagons of wine soon appeared on the table before them. 

As they ate, Jon filled Arya and Gendry in on his travels, as well as the goings-on back in King’s Landing. With Jon away, the day to day management of the kingdom had fallen to the High Council, comprised of Daenerys, Bran, Sam, Yara, and Tyrion. They kept Jon updated with regular ravens, allowing him to weigh in on important decisions even from afar. 

While Arya and Jon spoke animatedly, Gendry picked silently at his food. He responded politely enough if Jon posed him a direct question, but otherwise spent the meal staring darkly into the fire in the massive hearth at the other end of the hall. 

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” Jon said as the last of the food was cleared away. “But is everything alright? You seem a little out of sorts, Gendry.”

“I suggest you ask your sister,” Gendry said flatly. 

Arya glared at him. “Jon has enough to worry about without adding our problems to the list.”

Gendry’s nostrils flared. “Somehow I think he’d still want to know that his sister was almost assassinated not a moon’s turn ago!”

Jon—who had just taken a sip of wine—immediately choked on it. Once he had finished coughing, he turned to Arya. “Arya, is this true?” 

Arya threw daggers at her husband with her eyes. “It’s true,” she admitted. “But I’m fine. I have the situation under control.”

Gendry snorted. “If you call setting off alone on a suicide mission ‘under control.’” Before Arya could stop him, he had recounted the entire tale to Jon—beginning with the night of the storm, and ending with Arya’s declaration that she intended to go after Blackwood alone. “So you see, Your Grace,” he finished, eyes dark with anger, “your sister seems quite intent on leaving our daughter motherless, and me a widower.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Arya snapped. “I can take care of myself.”

“Aye, is that why I found you on the beach, unconscious, surrounded by dead men? I nearly lost you before, Arya. I’ll not do it again.” Shoving back from the table, Gendry stood and stormed from the hall.

Arya fell back in her chair. “Sometimes I want to wring that man’s neck. He should not have told you all that.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m glad he did. We all know you’re more than capable, Arya, but that doesn’t mean you have to do everything on your own.”

“Don’t tell me you agree with him?” she exclaimed.

Jon frowned. “Of course I do. Truth be told, I’d forbid you to go if I thought it would make a difference, but I know it won’t. I don’t see why you won’t at least accept your husband’s help.”

Arya gritted her teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—neither of you do.”

“So explain it to me,” Jon said calmly, and Arya was struck once more by how much her brother had changed since they were children. As a boy Jon had been moody and impulsive in equal measure, not to mention as stubborn as a mule. The man that sat before her, on the other hand, had a seeming unflappable mastery over his emotions. It was an evolution Arya had noticed in him from the time they first reunited back at Winterfell; one that had only solidified since Jon had become king. 

This ability undoubtedly served him well in King’s Landing, where he was surrounded by scheming nobles and a populace desperate for stability after years of unrest and war, but in that moment Arya found herself longing for the boy Jon had been, rather than the king he had become. _That_ Jon would have taken her side no matter what, just as she would have done for him.

Even in the midst of her melancholy, Arya knew they couldn’t go back. That version of Jon was long gone, as was the version of Arya who had been his companion. Though Arya hated to admit it, she knew she’d get sounder advice from this Jon than the boy who’d helped her fill the pockets of all of Sansa’s favorite dresses with peas.

Sighing, she dragged a hand through the front part of her hair. “Fine,” she said. “Gendry may be crass and bull-headed, but he has a code of honor. He would never stab a man in the back, or use trickery to plot another’s demise. He is strong, yes, but what will a hammer do against poison or intrigue?” Arya’s face hardened. “I might not be Faceless anymore, but I was once. I know how they operate, the lengths they are willing to go to achieve their ends. We are the same, Blackwood and I. That is why I must go alone.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Jon said gently, “but did it ever occur to you that that might be precisely why Gendry ought to go with you?” 

When Arya furrowed her brow, he continued, “You and Blackwood were trained in the same environment. You have the same skills, you said so yourself. But so were the other Faceless Men who were sent after him, and they all failed to best him. Perhaps what is actually needed in this situation is an outsider’s perspective.”

His comment caught Arya off guard. In truth, she had not thought about the situation from that point of view.

“You spent many years on your own,” Jon said when she stayed silent. “And you survived, despite all the odds. It’s no wonder your first instinct is to strike out alone.” Reaching out, he squeezed her hand. “But you’re not alone anymore, Arya. You have friends. Allies. Family. That is a strength in itself. You would be wise to use it.” He squeezed her hand once more before letting it go. “Promise me you’ll think on it, at least.”

“I’m not sure I like King Jon,” Arya said sourly. “He is altogether far too rational.”

This made Jon laugh, and in that moment, he looked much like the carefree young man Arya remembered. “You’d be surprised how often I find myself thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, I’ve been informed that the kingship is a lifetime appointment. I hope you won’t hold it too much against me.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.” She smiled faintly at him. “All that time on my own, I tried not to think of home. It hurt too much. But when I did, it was almost always of you.”

“It was the same for me.” Jon raised a brow. “Which is why I hope you will seriously rethink this decision.”

“Alright, alright,” Arya grumbled. “Enough already. You’ve made your point.” 

Arya spent the rest of the day with Jon and Nym, giving Jon a tour of the castle and the grounds. When it began to rain once more, they returned to the Great Hall where Arya and Jon regaled Nymeria with somewhat embellished tales of their childhood adventures. 

Gendry did not reappear as the afternoon progressed. Neither was he in their chambers when Arya finally retired for the night. Shucking her clothes, Arya slid between the cool sheets to wait for him. 

Hours passed, shadows slipping across the walls like thieves. Rain pattered softly against the windows as Arya lay on her side, watching the candle on the bedside table shrink down to a nub. 

In their five years of marriage, if the two of them were in the same place, they had never once slept anywhere but by each other’s side. It didn’t matter how angry they were, or whether they’d fought that day. Whether Arya had called Gendry stupid, or he’d called her maddening. 

Now Arya was disgruntled to find that sleep would not come without her stupid bull snoring beside her.

Finally Arya had had enough of waiting. Flinging back the sheets, she slipped out of bed. She slid into her boots, pulled a cloak on over her nightclothes, and stepped out into the darkened hallway. 

She found Gendry exactly where she expected—in the smithy, hammering away at a piece of glowing steel. He was bare chested beneath his leather apron, muscles straining beneath a thin layer of soot and sweat. 

Arya kept her footsteps light as she drew near, not wanting him to alert him to her presence just yet. Installing herself behind a nearby post, she allowed herself a moment to watch her husband work. 

There was a look Gendry got when he was shaping a piece of metal, one of total concentration—Arya imagined it was close to the expression she wore when practicing with Needle. In those moments, the hammer no longer seemed a tool he wielded, but a part of him; an extension of his arm, just as her sword was for her. 

They were more alike than she desired to admit, each in possession of more stubborness than sense.

“You can quit skulking, Arya,” Gendry said without looking up. “I know you’re there.” 

Masking her surprise, Arya stepped out from behind a post. “You’re getting better at that.”

Gendry carried the length of steel to a nearby the water trough and stuck it in. A hiss erupted from the trough, followed by billows of dense steam. “Unless you’ve come to tell me you’ve changed your mind, I’m not really interested in talking.”

Arya sighed and yanked on the end of her braid. Even though she knew what she had to say, her pride made it difficult to form the words. “I came to tell you Jon and I had a lengthy conversation after you so graciously removed yourself from the hall earlier.”

Pausing his hammering, Gendry dragged his forearm across his forehead. “And?”

“And…” Arya’s face pinched together like she’d sucked in a lemon. “And he convinced me that you might be right.”

“Might be?” he grunted, as he flipped the steel over and began to pound at the over side. 

Arya rolled her eyes. “That you _are_ right. Though not about my reasoning. At least not entirely. It wasn't only about my pride. You fear something happening to me—well, I fear the same about you. I can’t lose you, and if you come with me, I’m afraid I will.”

At this, Gendry finally set down his hammer. When his eyes met hers, the anger from earlier had melted away, replaced by tiredness. “Arya, I may be simple and bullheaded, but I’m not stupid. I know this is not like our other battles. I know I’ll be out of my element. And if I really thought I would get in the way I wouldn’t insist on coming. But I think I can help you. You and Blackwood are so alike. Mayhaps…” His face screwed up the way it always did when he thought too hard about something. “Mayhaps, I’ll see something you don’t.” 

“Strangely enough, that’s exactly what Jon said.”

Gendry dragged a hand through the thick black hair that fell past his ears. “Aye? Well, he’s a lot smarter than me. So if he thinks so, maybe there’s something to it after all. I might not be a trained assassin, Arya, but I’m not a helpless maid either.”

“No,” Arya agreed, a smile touching the corner of her lips as she closed the distance between them. “You’re not nearly pretty enough for that.” She came to a stop just before him. “Come to Pentos with me,” she said. “But first, come to bed. For the horrible truth is that I cannot seem to sleep without you near.”

Gendry's lips quirked. "Come to bed with me? It seems I'm not the only one who could use lessons in wooing." 

Arya scowled. "Just shut up and come with me." 

Gendry laughed, and the sound was brighter than even hammer on steel. “As m’lady commands,” he said, and taking Arya's hand, he let her lead him from the forge.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments inspire me to keep writing!


End file.
